


Never bet against a Winchester, even if you are a Winchester!

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, M/M, Sex Depravation, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 02:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: The lack of sex is driving both Sam and Dean crazy, but neither brother will admit defeat and beg. What happens when you place a wager on your willpower and then realise you have none?





	Never bet against a Winchester, even if you are a Winchester!

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to jj1564 for her tireless beta skills on this, as well as several of my flist who read, loved and encouraged this, including theatregirl7299, siennavie, and stir_of_echoes <3 Thank you ladies! As for the artwork, what a treat to be able to work with stormbrite not once this year, but twice. A real privilege and joy. Thank you SO much honey, you arted the EXACT scenes I wanted you to without any prompting from me, lol!!! <3<3<3<3

Sam stumbles downstairs after another fitful night of no sleep; tossing and turning and wishing he could put a bullet hole in the ceiling just to relieve some of the tension building behind his eyes. He’s met with an equally horrific looking Dean, just about propped up against the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee maker to kick into life.

This has got to stop; a bet’s one thing but this is becoming hazardous to their health. “Dean, I think we need to revisit the terms of this wager, don’t you?”

Dean’s red rimmed and puffy eyes swing towards Sam as he struggles to see his brother’s face, which is swimming in and out of focus. “Wha… ?”

Sam snorts and steps in close, hoping the lack of personal space and boundaries will shock Dean into wakefulness. “The bet, we need to end it.”

Dean flickers his eyelids and shakes himself before planting his palms flat against Sam’s broad chest. “Nope.”

Shoving his brother backwards, Dean sidesteps the grab Sam makes for him. “Not happenin’, Sammy.”

Sam’s about to start growling when he realises he’s too fucking tired to muster the volume. “Dean, come on. I know I started this, but - “

The coffee maker clicks and Dean lunges towards it, shunting Sam out the way. “Exactly, Sammy. _You_ started this. You said some very hurtful things.”

“For the love of - Don’t be a prick, Dean.”

“What’s up, Sammy? Can’t take the heat?”

Sam forces himself to turn and trudge away, throwing a parting shot over his shoulder. “Don’t blame me when some werewolf tears you a new asshole ‘cause you can’t keep your eyes open or walk in a straight line.”

*************

**_Two Weeks Earlier_ **

Sam tries not to vomit as he scrubs remnants of vampire innards from his face. “Dude, you could have let me duck!”

Dean wrinkles his nose and snorts. “Viscera’s a new look for you. Never know, might make it into a Summer fashion craze.”

Sam peels a stray piece of intestine from his shirt sleeve and flicks it at Dean before turning and dunking his head and shoulders in the waterbutt he’s been using to divest himself of decapitated monster remains.

Rising from the freezing cold water he’s presented with a lascivious grin plastered all over Dean’s face as his brother stalks forwards. “You know, guts or not, you’re hot when you’re wet.”

Sam lets his eyes roll back in his head as he shakes out water from his hair; scraping still-caked-in-god-knows-what fingers through it until he no longer resembles a just bathed husky. “Dean, you’re twisted. I’ve got vamp blood sticking my shirt to my chest and _you_ wanna hop on the good foot and do the bad thing. You are a wrong’en.”

Dean seems unperturbed by Sam’s description of his never sated libido and continues to walk forward, hands outstretched, tongue wetting his plump, smirking lips. “Come on, Sammy. We’re already filthy, might as well enjoy ourselves.”

Sam backs away none too slowly, heading for the relative safety of the Impala, knowing Dean might be a perv with a permanent hard on but he’s not going to want to leave spinal fluid coated ass imprints on her leather interior. “No, just no. That’s it, I’m cutting you off. Sicko.”

All humour falls from Dean’s face as he stops dead. “I’m sorry, what?”

Sam slides his fingers around the silver handle on the passenger side of the car and heaves the door open. “You heard me. Cut off. No more sex for you until you learn when and where is appropriate to try and seduce your little brother.”

Dean plants his hands on his hips and raises both eyebrows at Sam. “Don’t even get me started on how wrong every single part of that sentence is. You seriously think you can outlast me?”

Sam huffs out a laugh and throws himself in the car. “Watch me!”

Dean strolls around to the driver’s side and slides into the seat before turning to Sam and tilting his head. “Oh, brother, you are **on**. Rules? Forfeits?”

Sam shakes out his still sodden hair, enjoying the way Dean hisses as water droplets flick against his dash and windscreen. “First one to cave has to wear a dress down to the local bar and sing one entire song on the karaoke. At happy hour.”

Dean reaches across the shifter, letting his fingers curl in a ‘come on’ motion towards Sam. “Deal. I always thought your pins were better suited to a mini skirt, actually.”

“Big talk, bowlegs.”

“Bite me.”

“Not for a while.”

******************

Three days into the bet and the first time Sam considers being the one to beg for mercy, he’s sitting in the library reading a book filled with arcane spells and rituals that could curl your toes without even trying. Dean wafts into the room wearing an obscenely tight tank top, jeans snug enough to see he’s clearly wearing no underwear, and is bathed in Sam’s favourite aftershave.

Sam smells him before he sees him, but it’s enough to have the hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end, and as Dean wanders in, flashing sculpted shoulders and an ass you could bounce nickles off of, Sam nearly shoots his load. “Nice, Dean. Real nice.”

Dean’s face is impassive but his voice gives away the glee at his brother’s discomfort. “What? I’m just heading into the garage to wash down Baby.”

Sam’s legs - crossed at the ankles and resting on a low coffee table in the centre of the room - begin to twitch as he fights the urge to rub his thighs together. “Nice outfit.”

“Saves getting my ‘work gear’ messed up.”

“Of course it does.”

******************

Two days later Sam’s forced to flee the Bunker entirely because the sounds of Dean in the showers, obviously taking matters into his own hands, come floating out into the changing room as he’s getting ready for his own quick clean up.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Sam’s having to grab the edge of a locker to stop from stomping into the shower and falling to his knees. “Bastard.”

Foregoing the much needed scrub down, Sam flings his clothes back on, not even bothering to do up his fly, and runs full tilt from the room.

Dean’s satisfied grunts are swiftly followed by an innocent - “Sammy?” - then a low guttural laugh. “Too easy.”

*****************

Sam decides to fight fire with fire three nights and four wrist-cracking sessions of self love later.

Waiting impatiently for Dean to return from a beer run, listening for the tread of heavy boots on metal steps, Sam starts flicking channels until he finds something suitably filthy to watch.

Little to no effort is required for Sam to become aroused by the image of two gorgeous guys going at it like jack-hammers, with another one watching and jerking off over the Bottom’s back.

Lube and come mix together on screen as Sam’s cock strains for freedom in his trousers.

Pressing the heel of his hand against the rapidly growing bulge in his jeans, Sam lets loose a moan worthy of the cheapest, nastiest porn film.

It’s then that he hears the slow hiss of air escaping and the _thunkclick_ from the main door being swung inwards.

Practically ripping his flies open, Sam shoves his fingers inside his jeans and begins raking ragged nails along over sensitised flesh. “ _Fucking hell_. God, yeah, that’s it. Fuck him. Fuck him hard.”

The distinctive sound of glass shattering against metal and liquid dripping through the grating is followed by a string of expletives, boots pounding back up the stairs, and the door slamming shut.

Sam allows himself a moment of satisfaction before fisting his cock, hard and fast, until he’s spraying come down his legs and onto his socked feet.

******************

Castiel zaps into the Bunker the next day with an assignment and a request, and is battered on all sides by the commingling of two televisions turned up to full volume in two different rooms, both blasting out what sounds like a full-on orgy in progress.

Dean’s voice joins that of a man begging for his ass to be pounded, whilst Sam’s grunts and groans, nearly shattering the Angel’s ear drums.

If he were capable of blushing purple, Castiel would. “Bad time. Sorry.”

******************

_**Twelve days, eight hours, four minutes into the bet.** _

Dean hasn’t slept a wink in nearly two weeks and he’s about ready to start beating his cock against the tiled walls of the bathroom, if it will just stop the fucking thing from crippling him every time he even thinks about Sam without clothes on.

His brother doesn’t have to say anything, or do anything, just has to be within touching distance, and all roads lead south.

Dean’s had no more than a quart of blood circling his brain in days and it’s beginning to seriously affect his coordination. Let alone the rapidly expanding muscles in his left arm. That bicep feels like he could take down a bear. The rest of him is kitten weak and he’s so close to begging Sam for a fuck, it’s not even funny.

He can’t keep this up much longer, not if he values his eyesight.

Hobbling into the kitchen, Dean’s confronted by a half naked Sam bending over trying to unsuccessfully retrieve the coffee filter he’s just dropped on the floor, whilst using the work top as an anchor to stop himself falling off his feet.

Clearly this wager is affecting Sam just as much as it is Dean but that’s a very small win compared to the almost hilarious amount of hand cream, lube and tissue the older Winchester has gotten through in the last twelve days. “Mornin’ Sammy.”

Sam’s barely capable of cohesive speech but he’s damned well not going to give Dean the satisfaction of seeing how badly this little experiment is hurting him.

Pasting on what he hopes is a smug smile - which in reality is closer to a pleading grimace - Sam shoots for sexy and wiggles his ass in Dean’s face, only to almost over balance and bash his head on the cupboard directly in front of him.

*******************************

_**Present Day** _

“Dean.”

“Dean!”

“DEAN?!?”

Sam stares at Dean who’s rocking back and forwards, reciting nonsense words and giggling.

“Choking the chicken. Flogging the log. Jerkin’ the gherkin’.”

Sam steps in close and catches a few mumbled snippets of what he can only assume is sex deprived madness.

“Bashing the bishop. Five knuckle shuffle. Wank.”

Sam suddenly realises what Dean’s saying and can’t help his own incoherent wheezing as he plonks himself down on the carpet next to his brother. “Dean, dude, I think it’s officially time we got you laid, for both our sakes’.”

Sam’s presence filters through Dean’s haze of slang terms for jerking off, and turns to look at his brother. “Y-y-you might n-n-not be w-w-wrong.”

Sam heaves himself off the floor and is about to slip his hands beneath Dean’s arms when an almighty crash sounds in the war room. “Oh for fuck - what now?!”

Dean gets to his feet with Sam’s help and follows his brother towards the ruckus in the other room.

Laying flat on his back atop the war room table is Castiel, a struggling and swearing Crowley pinned to his chest.

“Get off me, Feathers. If I wanted their help, I’d _ask_.”

Castiel flings Crowley away onto the floor, tangling him in his own coat, and what appears to be a tail.

An actual tail attached _to_ the Demon.

Dean manages to shake off his horny haze long enough to lean down, lift the corner of Crowley's duster, and peer at a long snake like thing which is whipping around, seemingly of it’s own free will. ”Just out of interest, who did you piss off?”

Castiel rights himself and slides from the table. “I will give you three guesses. You will only need the one.”

Sam clears his throat and wiggles his ass, attempting to tuck back the raging boner he’s sporting, before smirking at Crowley who’s still sitting dejectedly on the floor. “Okay, what did you do to piss Rowena off?”

Crowley doesn’t even bother lifting his head, just slouches his shoulders and rests his chin on his closed fist. “All I did was interrupt a date, with a Prince... And maybe tell him her real age.”

Dean let’s out a short sharp burst of laughter. “You’re lucky you ended up with an extra bit, not missing pieces.”

Turning to Castiel who’s not even trying to hide his amusement at Crowley’s humiliation, Dean tilts his head at the Demon. “So, what exactly did you want us to do about Pinocchio over here? _Ouch_ don’t bite Crowley, I don’t know where your mouth’s been.”

Crowley wipes his lips to rid himself of the taste of stonewash denim and sneers. “Pinocchio had a donkey’s tail, not a snake’s, and by the way, not a folk legend.”

Sam rolls his eyes, throws up his hands and stalks away towards the library muttering and swearing under his breath. “If my childhood wasn’t already ruined, it bloody well is **now**.”

**************

Dean pins Crowley with a look that could strip the paint from Baby’s trunk and grits his teeth. “Unless you want me to give you the head to go with that tail, shut **up**.”

“Fangs wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

Dean absentmindedly rubs the bite mark still throbbing beneath the leg of his jeans and scowls at the Demon. “Zip it.” If he doesn’t get this waste of space fixed and gone, he’s going to pop a chubby he can tap on Crowley’s empty balding head.

Damn Sam and his ripped jeans.

The thought of any of his anatomy coming into contact with even the smallest part of Crowley effectively kills Dean’s libido and he makes note to try that trick on Sam later.

Sam, who is currently not even thinking about the fact that the strategically placed rip in the seat of his trousers is stretched to tearing point because he’s bending down placing spell ingredients around the room, giving Dean a tantalising view of butt cheek.

Dean’s about to sneak over and verbally kick his brother’s ass for not wearing any underwear in their present company when he spots Castiel and Crowley **both** staring at the gap in the denim not leaving much to anyone’s imagination. “HEY! Eyes front!”

Crowley snorts and refuses to look away whilst Castiel clears his throat before averting his eyes and fiddling with invisible lint on his trench coat.

Shaking his head, Dean clicks his fingers at Sam who’s looking between the three of them, perplexed.

“What did I miss?”

“Nothing, just, shake a tail feather, would ya! I’d like to get these two out of our hair, we had more pressing things to be getting on with.”

Crowley doesn’t miss the tone in Dean’s voice and takes great delight in the Hunter’s clear discomfort at having he and Castiel invade their space.

Some days it’s the small victories!

The Demon can scent arousal in the air, so knows exactly what **was** going to happen before they crashed in, halos and horns, first. “What’s up Squirrel, you got better _things_ to be doing?”

“No matter what it is, if it doesn’t involve saving your useless ass it’s _better_. Just sit still and let me get this chant going!”

Sam’s torn between highly amused at Dean’s annoyance with Crowley for interrupting his acquiescence and losing of the bet, and irritated his own self because of the raging erection rubbing painfully against his thigh. Going with aggravated mirth, Sam clicks his tongue at Dean and smirks. “Dean, are we sure we have to change him back? Maybe we could try putting extra animal bits on then sell him to the highest bidder.”

Dean enjoys the very unregal squeak emanating from Crowley as he sprinkles Dragon Horn on the end of the tail which keeps swishing and flicking uncontrollably. “Now there’s an idea. Scientific _and_ religious discovery of the century. We’d be famous and make a fortune.”

Crowley’s seconds away from saying something that will have him sporting a donkey head when Castiel cuts across him.

Stepping into the centre of the circle of salt surrounding Crowley, Castiel swipes him upside the head. “Be quiet. Unless you _want_ the boys to start adding and not subtracting bits?”

Crowley makes a lock and key gesture with his hand over his lips and Castiel nods at Dean to continue.

Sam and Dean both turn to each other, goblets of gloopy looking liquid held tightly in their hands, when they hear Castiel yelp.

“CROWLEY, NO BITING!”

***************

Finally blessedly free of Angels and Demons and unnatural animal parts, Sam and Dean slope back into the kitchen to grab a beer.

Dean pops the top on one and hands it to Sam before liberating his own bottle of frothy goodness from the fridge. “You were about to give in, I do believe, before Tweedles Dumbfuck and Derp decided to damage my calm.”

Sam contemplates the merits of pushing Dean’s buttons and realises if he has to put up with his own case of severely blue balls for much longer, he’ll go completely off the reservation.

Wearing a dress and belting out some terrible eighties pop song might well be a small price to pay for being able to walk without the risk of developing bowlegs to rival his brother’s.

Doesn’t hurt to play with the man every so often, though.

Leaning back against the kitchen worktop, Sam takes a long slow pull on his beer, runs the tip of his tongue around the neck of the bottle, catches droplets of condensation on his lips and closes his eyes in apparent bliss before groaning, low and long.

Opening his eyes, fixing Dean with a look that clearly says _prove it_ , Sam smirks and licks his lips. “Was I?”

Dean’s either going to implode, sob, or simply throw himself on Sam’s face and **grind**..

A man should not have to go this long without sex. Having a quick jerk once in awhile, okay fifteen times in the last fourteen days, but still, it’s not enough. Not only is he risking permanent tendon damage, but he’s started finding the oddest things attractive.

No one on the planet should get aroused by the sight of Mary Berry explaining how to ice a damned chocolate cake. Fucking BBC America!

Fighting the twitch he can feel starting up in his left eye, Dean downs the rest of his beer, slams the bottle on the counter, reaches out and snatches at Sam’s collar before dragging him towards the stairs. “Bedroom, now.”

“Does this mean I win the bet?”

“I don’t care if I have to stand in the centre of the Las Vegas Strip butt fuckin’ naked and sing the national anthem as long as you wrap your legs around my shoulders, got it?”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

************

Sam groans out his brother’s name as Dean’s tongue darts in and out of his tight ass.

Big strong hands grip and spread beautifully rounded cheeks, nails digging in painfully, leaving half moon marks in freshly paddled pink flesh.

The room is a picture of devastation; chairs overturned, both lamps smashed to smithereens and lying discarded next to the bed, what used to be clothing strewn in tattered shreds all over the floor.

The bed itself isn’t faring any better.

The footboard is hanging off, snapped in half. The mattress is angled downwards, springs poking through, skirting dangerously close to Dean’s balls every time he grinds himself into the sheets, which are now just a mess of shredded spit and come-covered cotton. Pillows are no longer pillow shaped, instead leaking feathers which have adhered themselves to Sam and Dean’s sweat slicked skin.

Sam’s got one leg hooked over Dean’s shoulder as his brother licks and sucks, flicking his tongue at a punishing pace, forcing mewling whimpers through Sam’s teeth, which are biting down hard enough on his bottom lip to draw blood.

“Please.”

Dean’s toes curl into the remnants of the covers which are tangled around his ankles. “Please what?”

“Fuck me, or I might actually go insane.”

Dean would waggle his eyebrows and be all smug, but the erection slapping against his belly as he slides himself up between Sam’s thighs reminds him he’s in just as much pain as the man begging beneath him. “You’ve got such a filthy mouth, Sammy.”

Sam shifts his shoulders and back slightly, tipping his hips, giving Dean better access.

As the head of Dean’s pre-come coated dick makes contact with Sam’s tongue slackened hole, the younger man huffs out a laugh and leans in close enough to whisper. “No, Dean, filthy would be me saying that for the last fortnight all I’ve thought about whilst fisting my own cock has been your tight grasping ass milking me for all I’m worth. My balls slapping wet and loud against your pert pink cheeks, as I make you beg for release.”

Dean’s eyes roll up in his head and his rhythm falters. “Bastard!”

Sam matches Dean stroke for stroke, messy thrust for messy thrust, until they’re ramming the headboard into the wall so hard there are flakes of plaster settling in Sam’s hair. “Nuhuh, bastard is when I tell you I licked my own fingers clean, every time, and remembered exactly what my come tasted like dribbling from your ruined asshole.”

Dean’s head is swimming with the picture Sam’s painting, and despite all his hard fought for willpower, he’s coming, like a fucking freight train, filling Sam with a fortnight’s worth of frustration and want.

Sam’s reaches for his own cock and Dean bats his hand away. “No, mine.”

Pulling out of Sam, Dean moves upwards until he’s resting just above his brother’s proud pink twitching dick.

He’s not ready but he’s willing.

Dean slams himself down, grunting against the sharp pang of pain.

Sam’s hands come up to grip his Dean’s hips and together they slowly raise him almost all the way off of the cock now filling and stretching him.

The gentleness lasts all of about sixty seconds as Sam’s baser urges take over and Dean becomes a limp dishrag atop his brother, just wanting to be fucked until he can’t remember his own name.

As Sam’s heart stutters and almost stops in his chest, he feels his balls begin to tingle and tighten, signalling an explosion of sensation that makes him glad he’s already laid down.

Dean is nothing more than a willing participant in Sam’s orgasm as he collapses across his broad tanned chest, still shuddering from his own climax.

The feel of Sam’s come slithering from his asshole tips Dean back over the edge and his cock dry twitches, pressed between Sam’s chest and his own stomach, making his toes curl and calf muscles ache..

Once Sam’s body has stopped convulsing, Dean settles into the crook of his brother’s neck, listening intently to the sound of his heart beating up into his throat.

It takes a few minutes but Sam finally finds his voice. “So, who’s meant to be wearing this dress?”

***********************

Howls and catcalls fill the bar as Sam readjusts his bustier, pulling the lace edging down over the sharp jut of his hips, which are exposed;  line of taut tanned flesh chasing the v of his groin into the waistband of his mini skirt. A mini skirt which is resting high up on legs clad in sheer stockings, tops of satin black suspenders peeking out from beneath the denim.

Turning to Dean, Sam flips his hair and grins, enjoying the sight of his brother fidgeting with the summer slip dress draped artfully over his muscled frame, accentuating the curve of his ass like no pair of jeans ever has.

Turns out when you bet against your brother to not be able to hold out for sex as long as you, you either both win or you both lose. As long as you do it together, no harm no foul, right?

Turning away from Dean, Sam highers the microphone stand, clears his throat and addresses the audience.

The audience is mainly made up of grizzly bikers and drunken bums, busty babes with their breasts half hanging out and country chicks bopping to their own beat.

Sam and Dean are nothing if not diverse in their choice of drinking establishments!

Sam winks at the closest unimpressed looking biker and opens his mouth. “Ready for some music?!”

Clearing his throat and bracing himself for the shit storm they’re about to bring down on their heads, Dean watches Sam shimmy his hips without even thinking.

Huh.

He was right.

Sam’s pins really do suit a mini skirt.

Doesn’t hurt there’s a fucking gorgeous set of black satin panties beneath said mini skirt, cupping and caressing his brother’s balls and impressive cock. Impressive even when not standing to attention.

The smile Dean allows to curve the corners of his mouth up is wholly smug and completely lascivious, and suddenly he’s not so fussed if he gets a bottle thrown at him. The sex he and Sam are gonna have later will be mind blowing enough to force anything else from his head.

Just the thought of that soft silky material sliding between Sam’s ass cheeks is doing funny things to Dean’s nerve endings, but seeing as he’s wearing literally nothing but a slip dress and a smile, he should probably try and tuck it back.

Huffing out a laugh, Dean turns to the guy in charge of the karaoke machine and makes a gun gesture with his fingers.

As the first strains of their chosen song start up, Sam leans to the side and whispers into his brother’s ear. “What’s got you so pumped?”

“In about four and a half minutes I get to peel your panties off with my teeth.”

Sam’s pupils retract to the point where Dean doesn’t know if his brother can even see any more but there’s a wicked glint flashing in the whites of his eyes he’s damned sure gonna enjoy the hell out of watching Sammy work that outfit whilst on stage. “So, ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

_Dude looks like a lady_

Sam grinds and circles his hips, leaving little to nothing to the imagination of the three wizened bikers sitting front and centre directly below the stage.

_Dude looks like a lady_

Dean tips a wink to the two mature country loving women nodding their heads in time to the music as he pulls the microphone from it’s stand.

_Dude looks like a lady_

Sam shimmies sideways, hooking his leg over Dean’s hip, sliding himself the length of his brother's body, forcing up the slip dress as he straightens.

_Dude looks like a lady_

Dean shakes his head, continues singing, and allows his stomach to rub up against Sam’s satin covered cock, relishing the smooth material sliding across the cotton of his dress.

_Let me take a peek dear  
(Baby let me follow you down)_

Sam uses the point of his thigh-high boot to snag against the back of Dean’s calf, leaving an angry red welt in it’s wake.

_Do me, do me, do me all night  
(Baby let me follow you down)_

Dean’s fingernails dig into Sam’s thigh - still flung across his body - and squeeze.

_Turn the other cheek dear  
(Baby let me follow you down)_

Completely forgetting the audience, the brothers continue to belt out one of their favourite songs and bump and grind, not caring if they’re about to get booed off stage.

_Do me, do me, do me, do me_

Sam and Dean finally manage to untangle themselves long enough to finish out the tune, and are met with a roaring round of applause. None clapping louder than the three septuagenarian bikers all on their feet and whooping!

Sam grabs Dean’s hand and leads him in a bow that if he were in fact a woman would have treated the entire bar to a nip slip worthy of Li-Lo.

**************

With the sound of the next nervous set of people stepping onto the stage to the first pounding notes of _Man, I feel like a woman_ , ringing in Sam and Dean’s ears, which makes the brothers almost collapse laughing, they stumble out back into the alleyway where the Impala is waiting for them.

Dean slams himself against her pristine paintwork and heaves for breath through the tears streaming down his face.

The laughter is theraputic, and makes his lack of tits jiggle in his dress, which just forces more guffaws from Sam’s upturned lips.

Sam’s laughter dies down before Dean’s but it doesn’t take long for the older Winchester to tilt his head and grin at his little brother.

Dean steps into the circle of Sam’s outstretched arms and leans up, resting still smirking lips against his ear. “I do believe I said something about peeling panties with teeth.”

Sam’s entire body shudders against Dean’s, and without their usual ten layers, Dean can feel every single tremor that forces its way along Sam’s long gorgeous lines, causing his own hormones to go into overdrive. “”In the car, now.”

Sam doesn’t argue, doesn’t even consider saying no. Just opens the back door and slides on in.

As Sam allows his legs to fall open, revealing not only the most tantalising mouth watering stocking tops Dean’s ever seen, but the merest hint of freshly shaved bollock, peeking out the side of his satin panties.

It’s all Dean can do not to throw himself into the car.

Instead he simply sits down, slides sideways, and closes the door.

*************

The barback with a tendency to enjoy both the male and female form, who thoroughly enjoyed the show those two burly blokes put on not ten minutes ago, comes striding out into the back alley for a smoke, only to be met with the sweetest ride he’s ever seen, rocking from side to side.

The sounds of animalistic love making emanating from within draws him nearer until his nose is practically squashed against the back windscreen.

Through the condensation frosting the glass, he can just make out the image of the short haired guy burying his face between the long haired dude’s thighs and ripping a pair of very delicate satin panties away, with his teeth.

“Damn, some blokes have all the fucking luck.”

END!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for 'Never bet against a Winchester, even if you are a Winchester.'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12518652) by [stormbrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite)




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